Grocery Shopping
by white maiden
Summary: Draco Malfoy dreads mundane tasks like grocery shopping which only prove to him how miserable he really is. Following a brief run-in with people from his past, Malfoy reassesses his life.


One box of powdered laundry detergent. One box of disposable razors. One head of lettuce. One tin of tuna fish.

It was a Thursday evening, in the middle of October. I had just spent another day at St. Mungo's trying to rebuild my credibility, only to return home to an empty flat with an empty fridge. Living like a muggle was only part of my self-imposed punishment for the sins of my family. It was also the only way I could escape my own failing marriage. I had some difficulty navigating the early stages of muggle life, but recently I had found myself sinking into a monotonous existence that often led to occasional bouts of binge drinking and borderline alcoholism.

On this particular evening, I was standing in Sainsbury's scrutinizing a bottle of cheap vodka before reluctantly placing it in the cart. Somehow the sharp bite of the alcohol was something to look forward to; it was consistently as unpleasant going down as it would be coming up.

I wheeled the cart aimlessly down the aisles, glancing at all the ready-made dinners and sandwiches that I had subsisted on for months. Although I had promised myself to actually learn to use the kitchen appliances (which were frankly terrifying), my cart consisted mostly of dry cereals and milk. I could hear the Head Healer's voice in my head, pleading with me to take better care of myself. In my hungover state I had told her to piss off and let me do my job. She then had me removed from the premises under orders to clean myself up before returning to work, whenever that would be. An owl would later be sent with information regarding group therapy for alcoholism.

So much for my attempts to clean up my family's reputation. It was quite cliché really, my whole lone son overburdened by the sins of his forefathers routine. I couldn't help it, I was taught to live based on the examples of others and uphold skewed ridiculous traditions. I don't ask for forgiveness, I just ask not to be shunned at work because none of the patients want me. So I live like a bleeding heart pariah trying to blame the world around me, when I know that I should blame myself. This conundrum of course brings me back to the bottle, which continues the whole damn cycle.

So there I was, standing alone in the grocery store, trying to ignore the voices in my head telling me what a failure I was, while also hiding the bottles of alcohol behind the socially acceptable foods like a loaf of bread and a a bunch of bananas. I found myself standing in before a large display of apples. Apples of different shapes and colors and brands. I reached forward and selected a few choice ones, knowing fully well that they would remain in the corner of the kitchen counter until they rotted into a brownish pulpy mess.

I barely noticed the small child next to me, standing on her toes and struggling to grab one of the apples. It wasn't until she started making those little whimpering noises all small children make when they want something they can't have for whatever the reason. In this case it was stubby arms and little pudgy fingers. After a few seconds of hearing the pathetic little pleas for help, I handed her an apple and watched her smile triumphantly.

She was rather pretty for a small thing. She had tiny little red curls and dimples around the corner of her mouth. She reminded me of that old muggle film star, except slightly less annoying. If this girl started to sing and tap dance, I would recant that statement and possibly then vomit on the spot. Thankfully the girl smiled politely and then scampered down the aisle towards her mother.

I should've noticed it immediately. The obnoixiously bright red hair and the sheer mass of said hair should've spoken volumes to me. Of course I was also nursing a pounding headache and wallowing in my self-induced depression, so I wasn't exactly in the state of mind to notice such things. The moment I laid eyes on her hand-knitted green sweater, I should've known exactly what I was looking at. It wasn't until I was standing before the woman I supposed was her mother that I had even realized what I was seeing. Oddly enough, the two women standing with the girl barely even blinked in my direction, as they were too occupied by their conversation. Afraid of confronting these two women, I busied myself with reading the nutritional label on a tin of sardines. The item I had wanted was at the end of the aisle, and I was too vain to wheel around and come back, so I would have to watch as these familiar figures walked past and hoped they didn't look up and recognize me.

I consoled myself by thinking that perhaps they had forgotten me. But I knew that was most likely untrue, but I tried to believe that they had some sort of mental block as to where I was concerned. After reading the amount of sodium in the sardines for the fifth time, I had convinced myself that I was just a face to them. A familiar face, conjuring some semblance of memories past, though of the type that had just manifested itself somewhere in your mind and made you question where those memories came from. Those were the briefest flashes of recognition, not of total, "oh-my-we-must-catch-up-here's-my-number" recognition, but the "nice-seeing-you-have-a-nice-life," sort. The kind where there were no strings attached, where neither party had been committed to that relationship in the first place.

For example, the girl you casually nodded hello to on the way to Potions hardly constituted a real relationship of any sort. In fact, you often forgot her name. But this particular relationship was different. I knew this woman's name, and she certainly knew mine. Neither of us would ever forget it either. It was that sort of relationship where the slightest mention of the other person created a bitter taste in your mouth and made you feel slightly ill. You heard their name and a slight pain registered somewhere in your memories, and though you've tried to ignore it, the pain is embedded so deep that no matter which way you turn, the cut get deeper and the pain gets sharper.

Here I was bringing up old memories again, only to find myself sinking deeper and deeper into depression, all the while eavesdropping on the conversation to learn of all the happy occurances in their lives. They were eagerly discussing a pregnancy. The woman I knew as Mudblood was chatting happily about the youngest Weasley's pregnancy, while the two women laughed at the mental image of the Savior of the Wizarding World sinking deeper into his role as Super Dad, as he added child number four to his brood.

Childish impulses boiled up within me and tried to persuade me to delight in the image of Harry Potter changing diapers and burying himself in toys. I thought of three pair of pudgy hands grabbing and demanding attention. Then the sentimentalist in me realized that Potter had three children of his own, in a stable happy marriage, while the Wizarding World fell all over themselves just to please him. But then again, the world never had to, he was a modest hero.

Then there was this woman, about the same height as I remember her, even with her famous mass of hair cropped short and pinned back. I saw her child. A bright-eyed pretty thing with bright red hair like her father, and large brown eyes. She bounded down the aisle with that friendly playfulness that made you want to throw her up in the air like a doll. The laughter in her eyes was almost deafening. The mother hadn't changed either. With the exception of the squealing tomboy of a child running around her legs, the only thing that was different about her were the slight lines by her eyes denoting age and wisdom. I tried to wheel around the corner quickly, nearly missing the same red-haired girl as she darted down the aisle.

"Rosie, get back down here, right now," the woman bellowed. "Don't you run off like that!"

At that moment, I glanced back over my shoulder to make the briefest eye contact with the woman. There was a slight flicker of recognition, until I ducked around the corner. I hid around aisles, hoping to avoid any further contact, when I arrived at the checkout with the two women right before me. Their conversation had stopped, and even the young girl was quiet. The silence lingered for a moment, as I anticipated their next move.

"I'm sorry, but do I know you from somewhere?" the brown-haired woman asked awkwardly. I tried to appear nonchalant.

"Pardon?" I replied, feigning ignorance, though I could not decide whether I wanted their recognition or not.

"You look awfully like a boy we went to school with."

The blonde woman spoke up, "It couldn't be him, Hermione. The boy we knew would never be caught grocery shopping." It was then I recognized her as Hannah Abbott, though it had taken me a moment to realize it with her newly swollen belly and the lack of her trademark golden pigtails. Granger however, looked more and more the same to me, as I recalled her face in the prime of our schooling, wrinkled with worry yet thriving off the pressures of life.

"Right. Of course. Sorry to bother," Granger broke, slightly confused. "Well have a nice day."

I returned the pleasantries quickly as they paid and exited the store. And that was it. I never had the time to say no, I am who you think I am. I never corrected them.

I did however manage to see a reckless driver pull almost onto the curb of the store, as Granger and Abbott jumped back and screamed at the driver. Again, the red-hair was unmistakeable, as Ron Weasley exited the car and assisted with the bags, while Granger placed the child in the car seat. Abbott slid into the backseat, while the married couple bickered about Weasley's driving skills (or rather lack thereof). He leaned down to kiss his wife tenderly, as she wrested the keys from his fingers, forcing him into the passenger side.

As the engine turned over and the car sped out of the parking lot, I thought of how different my life could've been. I could've been happy with a family that loved me. Instead all I could count on was draining both bottles of vodka in my bags, and doing things I would not remember doing in the morning. Nothing more pathetic than that really.

When I returned to my dismal flat, I saw down with a quill and a piece of parchment asking my wife to forgive me. I awaited her reply anxiously, emptying all bottles of alcohol in the kitchen sink. I sat in my armchair and closed my eyes, waiting for my eagle owl to return with a hopeful reply.

"Draco?" a voice asked quietly. I looked up into the familiar blue eyes of my wife. I had never been so glad to see Asteria. I tried to play up my genuine happiness with her and misery without her. I smiled as I kissed her hand gently.

She asked if I was ready to come home. I joked about the letter I had just sent. She didn't laugh. Instead, she reminded me that I had responsibilities as a healer, as the heir to the Malfoy estate, as a husband and as a father. I asked how my son was, and retorted snidely that he missed his father and couldn't understand why his father couldn't see him. I could tell that Tory could not forgive me yet, but I needed to go home.

We talked for a few minutes, until she decided that we should leave. As Astoria stood in the doorway and waited for me, I felt comfort creeping over me. However, I knew that this was simply pretending that everything was okay. It would take weeks or months for us to create some sense of typical family life. I knew that every night after Scorpius had fallen asleep, Tory and I would retire to separate rooms. Mealtimes would be consumed with Scorpius as we still tried to figure out a way for us to work as a family again.

I crumpled up the grocery list from earlier that evening, throwing all my clothes and food stuffs into boxes which could be levitated home easily. With each item, I felt a greater sense of resolve to not turn into my father and the men before.

One suitcase. Three rolls of semi-clean socks. One pair of dragon-hide boots. A set of dress robes. One step closer to home.


End file.
